Constrained Civility
by Philtrum
Summary: Will Graham has been living as Francis Dolarhyde's 'captive' for a while now. Francis gets back from another killing, and Will finds him in the living room.


Title: Constrained Civility

Characters/Pairing: Will Graham, Francis Dolarhyde. Meant to be Will/Francis, but it never quite got there.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I do not own Red Dragon.

Author's Note: Tried to keep it in character, but (imo) I failed horribly, for which I apologize profusely.

Summary: Will Graham has been living as Francis Dolarhyde's 'captive' for a while now. Francis gets back from another killing, and Will finds him in the living room.

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_Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight, Will? It appears quite black._

-

It streaked across his face, matted his hair, and dyed his pale lips a dark crimson red. He wore it like a mask, bluish green eyes peeking out from under the evidence of his night. It stained his hands and arms, all the way up to where the short sleeves of the T-shirt blocked his shoulders from view, and crept up his neck. The dull olive shirt he wore was relatively clean except for a few choice spots where the fabric had pressed against his abdomen long enough for the blood to soak through. His pants were another story. Spatters of the dark liquid arched high and low across his thighs, cutting off abruptly just below his knees. There were smeared hand prints from where he had wiped his hands on his pants, and two large blotches covering his knees as if he had knelt in a pool of it. His entire body looked something akin to the canvas of a child having a temper tantrum.

_In all likelihood_, Will thought warily, _that's precisely what it is. _

He sat on the couch, his head bowed as he stared at his shaking hands. Will stood in the doorway, acting as a silent observer. As he watched Francis' lips curl into an exhilarated half-smile, something cold crawled down his throat and settled in his stomach. He swallowed thickly, taking his first step into the room. He knew Francis knew he was there, though the man didn't move. It hadn't taken long after his capture to realize that there wasn't much Francis didn't instinctively know about his surroundings including who was approaching, who was leaving, and who was trying not to make noise in the next room. He had been quick to learn and adapt, but this particular situation had only happened once before, and he had been too exhausted to care. Most of the time he slept through Francis' late night soirées, and quite happily so. This time, however, it seemed luck was not on his side. His nightmares had barely permitted him a few solid hours of sleep before they woke him, and if there was ever something Will was bad at, it was minding his own bloody business.

Moonlight fell across Francis' hands, streaming in through the crack between the closed curtains. Will momentarily wondered if that was why the couch was always positioned at such an odd angle, before another thought struck him. He stared as the light reflected off the bead of blood collected in the man's upturned hand. It looked—black. He choked on a gag, turning his head away from the scene as he regathered himself.

"I thought of you while I was slicing his throat."

Francis sounded excited, giddy even, if that were possible for the man. Will took this as an invitation to stride further into the room on cautious feet. He was tempted to comment on how flattery would get him nowhere, but bit back the urge. This Francis could be as volatile as the one that surfaced when someone touched the horns of the tattoo on his back. Will still had bruises yellowing on his stomach and arms from that encounter.

"He had your eyes. Fear and all."

He sat in the chair a few paces away from the couch, putting a reasonable distance between himself and Francis.

"Is my throat next?" He asked to fill the silence.

Francis' lips curled again, this time into an amused smirk. Will found a private thrill in getting emotions out of him, even if it was only cold amusement. It made him seem like less of a monster and more of a man. That, and it had taken a long while for Francis to become comfortable with showing anything in front of him. The small part of Will's mind still capable of rationalizing the situation viewed this as progress.

"No. _He_ is much too fond of you."

Ah, yes. The Dragon; better known as _He _in their various conversations. He liked that Francis thought of himself and the Dragon as two separate entities. To some it made the man sound insane, but to him it was proof that he was still a man underneath it all. Viewing the monster and the man as two different identities was the only way Will managed living with Francis.

As for the apparent fondness _He_ held for Will— Well, he doubted even Francis understood that. Maybe it was because he didn't judge or hate Francis for what he did, and what he would undoubtedly continue to do until he was caught or killed. He understood better than most that you can't help who you are, or what the world has made you. Will didn't know why the Dragon liked him, or why Francis somewhat liked him, and honestly, he didn't want to.

He fidgeted in place, watching a teardrop of blood trail down the man's forehead from his hair line.

"Kind of you."

Francis finally looked up at him. They caught each other's gaze and for a moment Will could almost imagine a silent apology hidden in those tortured eyes.

"Why are you awake?"

Will's head tilted to the side as if to say, 'You have to ask?' Francis looked back down at his hands.

"What did you dream of?"

"Molly." He answered almost immediately. "And Willy. I killed them."

There wasn't much he kept from Francis, mainly because he had no one else to talk to. They had a silent agreement that if something offended one of them, the other wouldn't bring it up, but if they brought it up themselves it was fine. Will was usually the one to bring things up, though he had managed to get a whole conversation about Francis' grandmother out of him.

"How?"

"I shot them."

A sudden silence fell over them, and Will let it. He watched Francis shift, exposing the blood stain that had appeared on the couch cushion beneath his right leg. Knowing that on the other side of that cushion was a similar stain, he added a mental note to his to do list; tomorrow he would go online and order another couch. He'd make sure to place it at the exact same angle, cutting the expansive room diagonally across into almost equal halves, if only to get that flash of gratitude that occasionally sparked in Francis' eyes.

"Good night, Will."

Francis rose, his movements forced as he walked across the room to the archway that exited into the foyer, which in turn branched off onto the stairs. He paused a foot from the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder at Will.

"_I _killed your wife and son."

He continued out of the room, leaving Will to drown in the darkness of the lounge. Bringing his legs up onto the chair, Will replayed what just happened in his mind. The only sane part of him left casually pointed out that escape would be futile. He'd delved too deep, and now he was lost in the Dragon's apathy. He couldn't even spare a bit of remorse for the family Francis just murdered. He was better off stuck in this godforsaken house than out there where he could do damage to someone other than himself. The insane part of him echoed the sentiment.

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**A/N**: Beta'd by me. Point out any mistakes if you have the time. Thanks!


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